“How many of them will there be?”
“I don’t know yet.” He knew he had to be truthful. He could never disguise things from his mother. She was far too canny not to read between the lines. “The war could go on for years or be over soon. I can’t say, Mamma. Whatever it takes to finish it so we can go back to normality.”
She wiped her tears as Nina put a protective arm around her.
The despair in his mother’s eyes would stay with him for a long time to come. Even when the days were dark and endless, he would always remember them: soft and pleading and hopeless. She must have known something then, something that no one else could see.
What his mother did not know, what he didn’t admit to anyone, was that he was afraid. He was not like Beppe who once had yearned for war, for any adventure that took him far from home. And he was not like his uncle, someone who wanted Italy to rule more lands.
Present-day 1945
Michal rests his elbows on the front windowsill to search for small distractions and signs of life, while Stefano rummages through the cabinet drawers, looking for documents belonging to the stranger. He knows it is wrong in any other circumstances, but it is still too early, the wounds still raw, to rest his fate in the hands of a German. Papers and receipts lie loosely in the drawers, some with a name that he doesn’t recognize. There is nothing about Erich, no clues, no background, and no piece of information that links Erich to the house at all.
On the walls are rectangular imprints, unmarked by time, where framed photographs and pictures might have sat. Other drawers are filled with things, items from a past: an antique candleholder, an ancient-looking key, a magnifying glass, and a wooden box with nails.
After he chops some wood, he boils some water for washing and from the kitchen window spies Rosalind’s house next door. The curtains on a room at the base move slightly, but no one becomes visible. She is odd, he thinks, damaged also, if he believes what Erich says.
He takes the pot of boiled water to the bathroom situated between the main room and the back door.
He searches for a towel and can’t find one, but a folded rag from a cupboard will do.
Back in the bathroom he takes off his shirt and turns slightly to examine his body in the narrow mirror leaning against the wall. The scarring from burns stretches down the left-hand side of his body and left arm and flows on to his hand, which he conceals with a bandage. It is not just for vanity that he covers it, but also it is less likely to draw as many questions. The details of it are too painful. With the bandage he can say anything he wants; an infection, say, can end the conversation quickly.
He fills the sink from the pot of water. A razor sits on the edge of the basin along with the soap, washcloth hangs over the tap. Erich is thinking of every comfort. He has tidied the house, and vinegary air hangs in the bathroom. He is meticulously clean, making it all the more curious why Erich was not shocked and upset by the earlier state of the house, by the damage to his things.
Stefano froths the water with the soap, then with soapy hands smears his face and commences to shave. Once finished, he uses the dampened cloth to wipe the grime from the rest of his body. When he looks up, the boy is in the mirror also, standing behind him. Stefano turns to face him, and the boy can see the scars, a look of curiosity only, not horror or pity as is the case with adults.
“I had a nasty accident,” says Stefano, continuing his washing. “I lost some people in the process.”
The boy looks at him, then looks at his own weary shoes.
“It is your turn next,” says Stefano, handing him the cloth.
The boy shakes his head.
“Suit yourself!” says Stefano with a shrug, and he dries himself quickly with the rag, then puts on a clean shirt. His clothes replaced, he returns to the kitchen table. Using a penknife he keeps in his trouser pocket, he opens the tinned meat and beans. In a cupboard he finds crockery and spoons. He divides the glutinous brown contents between two plates and pushes one across to Michal on the other side, who wastes no time to begin eating.
“What did you used to eat?”
“Nettles,” he mumbles with his mouth full, and his head in his food. And Stefano is surprised he has answered; he had got used to no response.
“Do you remember the town where you are from? Do you remember the name?”
“There was a big clock outside,” the boy whispers, raising his arms.
“In the center of the town? Like the one we saw yesterday?”
The boy nods. So many towns with clocks, thinks Stefano. It is no place to start.
“And the people, in your house. Did you have an uncle, aunt?”
Michal is thinking, but he can’t come up with anything. He frowns and pauses his eating briefly as if he can’t think and eat at the same time.
“It’s all right. You’re not in trouble for not knowing.”
“My brother would cry a lot,” he says, as if he needs to say something.
“And what did he cry about?”
The boy bites his top lip.
“He did not like the dark.”
“I see,” says Stefano.
“But I do,” says Michal, the pleasure of food lowering his shield of whispers. “I can hide in the dark.”
“I like the dark, too.”
“There is a secret hiding place here that we can hide in,” the child says.
“There is?” says Stefano.
“It is a dark place in the wall.”
Michal points, and Stefano follows the tip of his finger across the room to the dark void under the stairs. There is nothing immediate that he can see, but Stefano is curious. He retrieves his torch and moves closer to examine the wall, and he recognizes immediately a hidden door. He recognizes it because he hid behind one himself once.
The edge of the door is ajar ever so slightly, and he pries it open with his fingernails to see the secret enclosure within. Under the light from the torch, there are empty jars and tins nestled in cobwebs and brown dust, and just in front of them is a shoebox that is not layered with years of dust.
He lifts the lid of the box to find bundles of letters that are tied up with ribbon. He slides his fingers beneath the ribbon to pull out several of the envelopes, and sees the same handwriting on the front of each envelope, the same name, Gustav Moulet, but no address. None of the envelopes are postmarked. He reads the backs of the envelopes one by one. Just one name is written: Monique.
He is interrupted by sounds next door, the thumping of floorboards on the top floor and a muffled cry, and he stops to listen for more.
When there are no further sounds, he continues his inspection. A folded sheet of paper falls out from somewhere within the bundle of envelopes; the contents of this brief letter in large and patient, florid handwriting contrasts with the spirited, hurried, and coiling cursive on the envelopes. The letter is from Georg to Monique to say that he can’t wait for the following summer. It is dated January 1938. Georg thanks her also for the condolence letter she sent after the sudden death of his father; though he buried a man he barely knew, who was rarely home, and whose coldness made it difficult to form a relationship, the letter says.
But apart from the regret that Stefano can sense from those lines, the letter is mostly optimistic. Georg explains that he is thinking of joining the army and traveling like they (Monique and Georg) talked about, of places far away where the air is always warm. Where? Stefano wonders. He would like to know that. Georg mentions Rosalind fleetingly at the end, an afterthought it seems. Stefano is curious. If they are the same Georg and Rosalind from the neighboring property, why are the letters kept here? But he is more intrigued that Rosalind’s husband wrote to someone else. He has a sudden desire to know these people better.
A shriek from the house next door forces him to cease further investigation, and he quickly returns all the letters to the box and replaces it within the cavity. From where they are stored, someone doesn’t want these found.